My first Mother’s Day was two weeks before Kate was born.
Technically, I suppose I was already a mother. It was a perfect pregnancy, craving only oranges which my hubby dutifully peeled for me. Wondering if I would ever sleep comfortably again. But it didn’t feel real yet.
Motherhood still seemed like a shiny Hallmark concept involving brushed hair, smiling babies, and women who somehow folded tiny socks without crying.
Then Kate arrived. And just like that, Mother’s Day changed forever. We went to the hospital at 8:00am and she was born at 5:17pm
Like the preschool open house when she was about two-and-a-half. The teachers had made litle hand cut outs for all the mothers to each write their name. Construction paper. Glue. Probably glitter — because preschool classrooms operate under the assumption that everything improves with glitter.
On my tag Kate carefully wrote across it in crooked preschool letters:
“MOM”
That was it. One word. Three letters. And honestly? I think it’s still one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.
Then there was the preschool play where she dressed as a witch. Her big line was supposed to be:
“Come here, my little pretty.”
We practiced. And practiced. And practiced.
But when the moment came ... standing there in her little costume in front of all those parents ... she threw her tiny arms wide open and proudly declared:
“Come to me, fweetheart!”
The audience laughed. I nearly levitated from love.
Some children are mischievous. Some are wild. Some test every boundary known to mankind. Mine once accidentally got a crayon mark on the sofa… and put herself in time out.
No lecture required. No dramatic parental speech. Just a devastated little girl silently marching herself away to reflect upon her crimes against upholstery.
Honestly, I should’ve bottled whatever personality trait caused that.
Mother’s Day itself has became its own collection of family stories over the years.
My sister once bought SIX identical Mother’s Day cards — one for each sibling to send to our mother.
Inside we all wrote a tiny note:
“I know you like me best.”
Frankly, that may still be the funniest and most efficient holiday shopping strategy in family history.
And then there was my mother-in-law.
She adored getting a Mother’s Day card from me because I married her only child. There was something especially tender about that relationship as the years went on. I wasn’t just celebrating my own motherhood anymore ... I was honoring the women who came before me, too.
That’s one thing nobody tells you when you’re younger. Mother’s Day keeps changing. At first it’s about your own mother. Then suddenly it’s about sticky fingerprints, school projects, and tiny voices calling “Mommmmm!” from another room every six minutes.
Then one day ... almost impossibly ... you become the grandmother. And oh my goodness.
I always thought being a mama on Mother’s Day was special, but there’s nothin’ quite like being a grandmother.
Because now I get to relive it all.
The wonder. The chaos. The tiny sneakers by the door. The funny mispronunciations. The impossible amount of food growing boys can consume in under seven minutes.
Each grandson arrived carrying his own little sack of joy straight into my heart. And the beautiful thing about grandmotherhood is this:
You realize the ordinary moments were never ordinary at all.
The crayon marks.
The preschool performances.
The handmade cards.
The crooked little “MOM.”
Those are the things that stay.Not the spotless house.
Not the perfect holidays.
Not whether dinner was organic.
Just love.
Messy, funny, exhausting, unforgettable love.
And if I’m lucky, someday one of those boys will be writing about us too. (Although hopefully not about the time I let them eat tortilla chips and guacamole for dinner).
Happy Mother’s Day to the mamas, grandmas, stepmoms, chosen moms, grieving moms, hopeful moms, and every woman who has ever loved a child with her whole heart.
Even when they drew on the sofa.
